


parallel world

by spacebutterfly



Category: Inazuma Eleven GO, Inazuma Eleven GO Chrono Stone
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 18:42:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1236970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacebutterfly/pseuds/spacebutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If not for the accident with the time machine, what would his life be like now? He'd like to think that it doesn't matter, but the unconscious mind has a way of getting the better of us all...</p>
            </blockquote>





	parallel world

Yawn.

He sits up straight and stretches. For hours now he's been poring over this textbook, or so it feels, so he'll take a quick break. It's not a problem – he knows his limits, after all, and his parents won't be home from work until evening, anyway. Standing up, he crosses the quiet hall to the bathroom.

After washing his hands and splashing water on his face, he sees himself in the mirror. As always, his mop of green hair doesn't seem to want to stay respectably put, and though short, it sticks out all over the place, especially the clumps fringing his face. Is he going to have to have it trimmed again? He's already had it seen to once this month already. Resignedly, he runs his hand through the knots – it's something of a habit, really, trying to push it all back down – then, he pauses.

Odd. For a second there, he'd felt as if something was missing. As if there ought to be something there, where his hand is. Something to sit on the crest of his head...

How peculiar. Is this what they call 'deja-vu'? Chuckling sheepishly to himself, he returns to his room, flicking on the light switch as he walks through the door, because it's gotten dark in here without him realising.

Emptying his mind of useless, unrelated thoughts, he opens his textbook back to the page he'd left off, scrawling additions to his notes.

By the time he's satisfied with his studying – for now, anyway – the window by his desk shows him only darkness. He had expected his parents home sooner, but it wasn't unusual for them to work overtime either, not by any means...

Withholding a sigh, he closes his notepad with a thump.

And stares.

There's a name written on the front, in bold print. A name that he is certain that he has never seen before.

Strange. He hadn't felt out of ordinary a few seconds ago, but now, just with this one thing, he's feeling uncomfortable. Of course, it's _possible_ that he accidentally picked up someone else's notepad and started writing in it without even noticing.

But that's not really the case, and he knows it.

He looks around. Nothing looks any different from before, everything is exactly where it should be, and exactly as it should be. Yet the more he looks, the less familiar it all is. The book, the desk, the sheets of his bed, all made up and tidy. The books on his shelf which he doesn't remember reading. The medals which grant him no feeling or connection when he looks at them. The framed photographs, which seem to show a boy of his age, happy, proud, who bears uncanny resemblance to him, and yet is not him.

Why is in he in this house? Clearly there has been a mistake. He has to get out, now.

There's the sound of the front door opening, followed by the bustle of people entering and roughly closing the door behind them. If they see him in here now, what will they do? Will they throw him out?

They're calling a name. His body responds as if out of his control, descending the staircase towards the sound of the name as if this is simply what is done. He enters the kitchen, coming face to face with two people he has never seen before. They smile as if he has kept them waiting.

What's wrong? they ask. You're quiet today, says one. The other pats his shoulder, making him jump. Studying hard as always, the person laughs approvingly. You must be tired. They speak as if they've known him a lifetime.

He shirks away the touch of the strange person, garnering odd looks from them both. For a second he thinks they might look concerned, then suspicious, then he's not sure if he can see their expressions at all. Their faces are formless, like a distant memory.

They call the name again among whispers of concern, but the sound only pricks further confusion in him. He turns to run, out of the kitchen and down the hallway, nearly tripping over his own feet, the legs which he can't feel struggling to support his weight.

He crashes into the door and grabs and pulls at the handle for a good few seconds before remembering that doors don't work like that, even if it weren't locked. With footsteps at his back he scrabbles for the next best thing, the window, but his quivering hands can't get a grip to slide it open. It's no good.

Someone grips him tightly by the shoulders and his first reaction is to lash out with his arm, whirling around and baring his teeth, and his assailant shrinks away immediately. Still the two are talking, their voices increasingly high-pitched and grating on his ears, but he no longer understands their words. They make as little sense as this house, and although they keep their distance now, he imagines that they will move closer, that they will take hold of him again and put him in strange clothes, keep him in this strange house, calling him strange names and making him write strange symbols over and over again...

“DAD!” He screeches, feeling his own voice bouncing off the walls. “DAD! HELP ME, DAD!” He screams until his head feels numb and everything disappears.

  
***

   
Someone nudges him on the cheek. He sits bolt upright and looks ahead of him. Where is he?

The clear, dusky sky. The plateau. The nest. The jungles in the distance. He looks to his side, and there's Dad, eyeing him sternly. He squawks loudly.

“ _You were yelling in your sleep! Woke me up! Thought something terrible happened!”_ He flaps his wings furiously.

“Sorry, Dad,” Tobu snickers sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. His hand touches on the rim of his hat, and he smiles. His dad cocks his head with concern.

“ _Are you all right? You seem quiet.”_

“Nothing wrong with me,” the boy grins. Then, as a thought comes into his head, the words tumble out. “Just, I'm glad you're my dad, Dad. You're the only dad I ever want to have.” His dad irritably nips him on the shoulder and he yelps in pain, rubbing it furiously as he watches him return to his perch. “What's that for?!” he growls. “I take it back! You're the worst dad ever!”

The quetzalcoatlus lets out another deep squawk, almost as if he's laughing at the boy. Sighing, Tobu falls back onto the nest of leaves and stares up at the sky. The sun is just beginning to rise, but for now the stars are still visible, twinkling down at him.

He's not sure why, but he feels as if he has a reason to feel glad today. Glad to be himself, living like this, with the family that he has...

  
***

  
From his perch, the quetzalcoatlus watches his son sleeping out of the corner of his eye.

Before they'd met the Raimon Eleven, he'd always slept soundly. These days, it's not always so.

Dreams are only dreams, but if the past has taught them anything, it's that the future is unpredictable, and rarely straightforward. A father can't help but worry.

From the nest Tobu calls 'daaaad', stirring the quetzalcoatlus out of his thoughts, but from a glance it's clear that the boy is just murmuring something in his sleep.

“Daaaad, stop pecking me...”


End file.
